Stairway to Haven
by Alinah
Summary: [Complete] Aragorn finds himself climbing a mysterious set of stairs, unsure where they will lead him. And who are the creatures lurking in the fog...?


Hi!  
This is a small fic that came to me when the flu was frying my brain - maybe that´s why this is almost Legolas-less, hehe. My aplogies to those waiting for an update for "Light My Path", it will come soon - but this story just nagged me until I wrote it. Blame it on the fever...  
Thanks to San for editing this. I hope you all enjoy reading.  
Feel free to leave a review.

Alina

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Still not mine (I wonder whether that will ever change...?)

**Stairway to Haven**

His moves were constant, leading upwards.  
Step by step by step.

How long had he been walking these stairs?

Had he stepped upon them just now or had he been climbing them for day and night, forcing his aching legs to lift his feet time and again until his muscles remembered no other way to move but this?

Aragorn knew it not, and neither did he know his reasons for taking this painful path. His eyes were glued to the stone beneath his feet, and he was unable to tear his gaze away. From the corner of his eyes he could make out darkness that was filled with shifting light. Fog. It circled him, reached out for him, and clung to him with wet fingers he could not shake.

Whatever lay beyond the stairs was shrouded by the shifting white talons. Maybe it was an abyss of sheer rocks in the mountains. Maybe it was a garden of green branches in Lothlorien as he moved towards a talan high up in the skies. Or perhaps the mist was truly a collection of clouds and he had left the boundaries of Middle Earth to conquer what lay above sun and stars.

He was cold, so cold. And yet he was sweating. The healer's voice within him was alarmed, telling him that he was ill and should stop for a rest, but his will valiantly denied this. Nay, to halt would mean death. He did not know what was hunting him, if anything, but his very instincts cried out to him that once he ceased to move he would cease to breathe, cease to think, cease to be.

So on and on he trudged, his heavy breathing loud in his ears, his breath dancing in the air before him. His sword smacked his left leg as he walked, the sheath slapping against his wet coat. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Echoes drifted through his mind of reins slapping a racing horse's neck while he leaned forward to cut down a dark shape in front of him. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Cries echoed painfully across a wind-swept plain as he lay hidden beyond a hill, waiting for aid and trying to ignore the whip that lashed his friends only a few paces away. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Laughter rang out, mingled with rough voices singing songs of freedom and victory, hands coming down on the saddles that lay beside the wild riders who celebrated their survival. Slap. Slap. Slap.

One sound. So many images.

Round and round they chased each other in his head until he thought he would get ill from their folly and he desperately wanted them to halt, wanted to free his mind from the trap it had been ensnared in.

Pain. An anchor in the madness that had taken him.

His body was flooded with aches, yet he began to realize that much of the pain stemmed from his right leg. Unable to shift his gaze at all, he fought to catch a glance of his leg as it moved by his range of vision as if belonging to another person.

Blood soaked his leggings, drops raining down to the stony steps beneath his feet with every move he made; blood that sprinkled the crumbled leaves that crunched ever so slightly when he stepped upon them.

Was it winter in Lothlorien?

Was Arwen near?

The thought made his heart ache and served to focus his tired soul. Unable to use his eyes as they failed to obey him, he strained his ears in the hopes of catching any sound that would tell him his beloved was close.

She would be able to tell him where he was. What he was. Who he was.

Sounds sighed and moaned all around him, wind gracing stone, dead leaves scraping hard earth - and words...?

_"Melindo." (Loved one_.)

Was it truly her voice? Aye, it had to be, for he would never mistake anyone for her. No wizard's spell could ever disguise her from his heart's eye. His heart leapt into his throat and he tried with all his might to lift his head, hungry for her sight. Valar, just one look upon her would give him the strength to endure this, to climb these stairs until they lead him wherever he had to go...

Yet her loving caress had been but a whisper, and its gentle support melted away when it was not repeated.

Melindo. Was that who he was? A lover, climbing the stairs of a tower to reach the destination of his heart's desire? Aye, love could push a man far beyond his limits, could make him reach for the sky...

But then a new voice came to him upon the cold breeze; a male voice but one also filled with warmth.

_"Mellon-nin..." (My friend...)_

Aragorn would know this voice even standing upon the edge of Mount Doom, just as surely as Arwen´s. Legolas - was he near? Was this Mirkwood on a foggy night, the once gentle forest's looming darkness beckoning to him from the void?

Friendship could be a rope pulling him though the densest thicket, guiding him through ice and storm. Was this what he was, a friend eager to find help with one he trusted? Or was the fire that drove him the fear for his comrade's life?

The thought scared Aragorn and he doubled his efforts to once again hear the woodelf´s voice, eager to search it for hints of fear or pain.

But the swirling world around him would not allow him to find peace. For new words were formed, of a tone far rougher than that of any elf.

_"Thorongil. Auth, na auth..." (Thorongil. War, to war...)_

He groaned, trying to raise his hands to block out the sounds as once again images sprang to his mind of terror and bloodshed, of torn limbs and mouths opened in one last gasp of agony. No more, no more...

Was this where he was heading? Up from a dungeon deeply buried beneath the earth to face death and war once he broke through to the surface? Would his sword turn crimson again in his hands? Despite his current denial, he knew that a battle rage was powerful and could carry a wounded man to abilities no mortal was ever meant to have...

His instincts turning towards war; he suddenly realized that he was not alone. Shapes moved towards his sides. Shadows covering his own shadow in the fog. Forms flanking him, closing in...

A smile touched his lips, feeling alien there. Fixed as his eyes were upon the stairs, his foes would not be prepared for his reaction, but as soon as they stepped within his reach, he would lash out at them, and no wall of fog would hinder him from finding his aim.

Bound as his senses were upon his enemies, it was he who was surprised. Not by his opponents, but by his injured leg giving way.

With a curse he fell, his knee colliding painfully with the hard rock of the stairs. Voices rose up around him at this display of weakness, and he was finally able to move his head to face his attackers.

The world spun widely as he turned and the edges of his vision swam. Yet, beneath the wavering fog and the flickering light that cut through the cold night's darkness, he could make out a shape moving towards him.

The creature seemed to float upon the fog, legs disappearing from view as if they were indeed one with the milky substance.

A dark halo floated around the lithe form, face blurred and meaningless, yet light glinted off metal when the beast moved. Metal meant weapons.

With a roar, Aragorn pulled his sword forth and swung. The blade was clumsy in his hand and seemed to gain weight as he wielded it, forcing the tip down unto the stone with a clang. His sweaty hands slipped on the hilt, almost losing their hold, but despite his troubles he must have struck his foe.

The creature floated backwards, melting back into shadow and fog.

But it was still there. Aragorn could feel it. It was not alone, either. More of them waited, hidden beyond his reach.

What cowards they were! It had to be their aim to wait for his illness to bring him down before attacking him. Afraid for their own skins, they refused to meet him in a fight and grant him an honourable death.

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn used his sword to push himself back to his feet. No, he would not allow them such an easy victory. If they wanted him, they would have to follow him up the stairs, all the way up to wherever this stony path would lead him.

He would not give up.

Could not give up.

Could hardly breathe.

His vision swam, and even though his gaze had found the steps again, even the image of them began to fade, making him feel as if he was beginning to walk upon the fog itself.

Sounds drifted closer to him yet again, and once more words broke free from the shapeless murmur. This time, however, they were no longer clear and mingled as his mind struggled to pry them apart again...

_"Esnur..gwandel...urnes..."_

He felt his mind slip as it desperately tried to grasp the meaning behind the sounds. Even as his body fought to remain upright, to defeat the stairs that began to twist and turn beneath him, making his footing insecure - even then, he knew he had to understand.

_"Estel - gwanur..."(Estel...brother...)_

Estel. Hope. This was what he had been once, before he left. And he had been a brother too, long ago when his life had been guarded in the only safe haven he had ever known...

_"Ion-nin..." (My son...)_

A hope. A brother. A son.

Aragorn stumbled when suddenly his foot cut through thin air. He caught himself, barely keeping from falling, and a rush of triumph raced through him when he realized that he had reached the end of the stairs.

The destination.

The end.

He was falling now, but arms caught him gently, and a wave of love jolted through him like a bolt of lightening. For a heartbeat, all pain and confusion fled and Aragorn gazed down the flight of stairs he had just braved.

The stairs leading up to the heart of Imladris.

A horse stood at the foot of the steps, soaked and heaving with exhaustion.

Elvish guardians stepped closer, their faces concerned and full of disbelief.

And above him, the faces of his elven father and brothers.

Elrond´s hand tenderly brushed the weary man's eyelids, gratefulness in his gaze that his human child had finally come back to him.

"Sleep, my son, for you are home now."

Darkness reached for Aragorn yet again, but this one was gentle and promised healing and care.

"Lond berion-nîn..." My safe haven...

Sleep came, and with it a fraction of peace to a haunted heart.

The end


End file.
